#entrapment

i. part one

Daniel was going to die. He was sure of it now, if he hadn’t been more sure of death before - the times when the bump of coke was just a bit too full and freaked out his senses to the point of paranoia about nosebleeds, and then brain bleeds, and then bleeding out from his brain to death in the back of a crappy, sweaty bar; worrying about dying with an even sweatier, crappier guy breathing uncomfortably at the nape of his sensitive neck with an equally coked up nose of his own.

The thing in front of him - monster, angel, demon, temptress, saviour, conman, Daniel did not know - seemed to hum contentedly, amused at the sight of Daniel shaking, soaked and honestly unsure if he was on the verge of pissing his pants or begging him to take them off for him. Each mortifying. Each humiliation a small death. He was dying already, in pieces.

Those eyes, sunset raging fire horizoning on his own face, unblinking. Its blackened, thickened locks, all curled to frame a devastating, otherworldly, inhuman face. He was desperate for something to happen. Anything. The unending, unwinding, unmoving fear coursing through the air, electrifyingly stagnant as if the Thing was savouring the taste. 

“Listen man, Im sorry, okay? I-I didn’t mean to..”

Daniel starts, his words sounding frantic but warbled, like speaking underwater as he trails off, not even really knowing what he wanted to apologise for.

The Things shushes him, condescending to any onlooking eyes, if there were any to exist in the hidden hole behind the abandoned church Daniel had shuffled off to in hopes of a little peace, a little spook to the ambience of him reading the comics in his newspaper in the middle of the night, brainstorming his next interviews. He just wanted a change of scenery, and no one even came here, except vandals to spray paint dicks, obscenities and their tags on the walls and the floors, and the odd homeless person before they inevitably got freaked out with the lingering voice shouting around the walls of their head to leave, somethings wrong here, go. But Daniels sense of self preservation had long since been burnt away, the embers stoking his ambition, or relentlessness, or curiosity, or nowadays, his lust. All things beneficial for his work, in their own ways.

A clawed, blood specked hand creeps up the inner meat of Daniels cramped leg, having been locked into position with fear as he’s crouched down low against the wall, looking every little bit the piece of prey he felt, his head bowed but his eyes refusing to follow suit. And he shudders as he realises his body betrays his mind when he welcomes the touch. Wants the pinpricks to trace up his skin, over his veins and his blemishes. He caught the soured tang of someone else’s blood, soaked into its claws, slicked across its indigo shirt, streaking up from the blood-slicked dusting of hairs at its chest, up the delicate throat, smearing that beautiful face. Whoever it belonged to didn’t matter. The scent was all Daniel now. 

Toppling the smell was Daniels own scent that the Thing must’ve somehow identified and revelled in. He must’ve reeked of pure, unadulterated fear (and misplaced tinges of lust but.. Daniel was sure it couldn’t scent that, after all, a predator hellbent on getting its maw around your arteries doesn’t cast a second thought to the tented hardness stirring in someones jeans, it would be too occupied with the honeyed victory of the kill.)

But the Things hand kept climbing, kept dragging its.. nails back and forth slowly, almost teasing - teasing death or something else, Daniel was confused, but the noises his throat forced out, painful little whines and the furrowing of his brow and the hot painful tears that collected in his eyes fuelled the invisible track the claws traced. Swirling around the meat of the inner thigh, then back on top, before dancing its way further towards — 

Before his thought could continue, fiery eyes locked onto his, the Things face inches from his own, close enough to breathe the same air as Daniel, inhaling Daniels shaky exhales. His mouth opens to push out a question, a word, anything it can manage, and the Things wide, apocalyptic eyes don’t move, but its brows shoot up, almost placating, almost mocking.

“Shh, beautiful boy. I am here now. You have not been taking care of yourself.” It whispers, cold breath hitting Daniel’s nose. It smells of thick blood and nothing else.

Daniel wonders, absently, the thoughts flying away from his mind as quickly as they enter, how this Thing can judge the way Daniel takes care of himself. More often than not, Daniel has at least four meals in his belly a week, the other days gone hungry, yes, but other needs being sated.

He always showers after days like that, even if the phantom feeling of hands bruising his jaw, or his hips, or his spine can’t wash off, or the lingering soreness of having his hair pulled or his throat battered don’t fade so quickly.

He’s still taking care of himself, it shouldn’t matter how, or even how well.

“No mind now, my fascinating boy. You will not need to worry your head about such things ever again.”

There’s more edge to its soothing, unassuming voice when it says this, and Daniel absentmindedly wonders if its because its hand had now stilled on the crease between Daniels thigh and his groin. 

“I am going to take you, now, Daniel. And you will not fight it. I should not leave my things out of arms reach, not anymore.”

The possessive streak in the words sends a zing up Daniels aching spine, a fucked up sense of wanting, and belonging. Its tilted head haloed by streaks of moonlight pouring in from cracked church windows surrounded by purpled and yellowed obscene graffiti - and yet none of them take away from the heathenish, godless way Daniel feels drawn into the Thing.

Is it a Thing? Maybe an Angel. A Devil. It couldn’t be - with eyes like that, like the sky coated in syrup at daybreak. With a voice like that, as if dripping the stained glass sweetness of a choir down his ears. With lips from which that voice comes, lined harsh and soft, plump and pointed.

 Too hard to figure out when its unoccupied hand comes to touch his cheek. Daniel forces himself to stay stock still as that one, too, begins to study, map, trace. He can’t seem to punch the breath from his lungs. Lubricated with his fallen tears as a slender, coffee brown finger imprints its way along the darkened freckles on his cheek, up to where his red rimmed green eyes track the Angels face, nails grazing the skin as they move. Smoothing over his thick brows and the expression of fear mingling with exhaustion and a fucked up strain of desire.

The Angel seems to snap out of it when Daniels breath hitches and it must’ve felt it, rather than seen it. A clawed finger comes to pad Daniel’s mouth, slightly agape, playing slightly with his swelled bottom lip, moving its face closer almost as if to nuzzle. To adorn with the simple affection of skin atop of skin.

Daniels heart beats so fast he’s scared it’ll give out before his legs, and his vision will speckle with black - forcing him into the throes of unconscious danger and tearing him away from his Angel.

Noses touching, eyes blurred but unmoving from one another, the Angels breath filled his lungs. A word. A promise. A curse. Something that sounds too much like surrender, yet his body leaned into the comfort of it anyway.

- 🦋

Too much. Not enough. His head is always either swimming or drowning lately. Robert isn't sure when he should be feeling present and when he should be trying to flee. All he knows is that the presence of the Anwars settles his mind like nothing else in the basement does. When they're near, it's like their warmth chases away the cloudiness and brings him back to the present. The more he craves clarity, the more often they must remain near.

Some days, Robert doesn't let go of either Chad or Cirus for hours, insisting they stay near, chase away the fog. He takes the kisses, lets their lips paint his forehead with warmth and thoughts, each one bestowed hammering another minute of his mind not screaming that something is wrong.

On other days, Robert is pushed into the corner of the basement cage like a feral dog, teeth bared and threatening to bite off any fingers that come close to him. His mind still screams at him. But more and more it screams to calm down and let them help. Cirus's large frame pushes him into the blankets, covering him from the world. Chad's hands rubs his head, one finger less than he should have.

Stay. Stay away. He can never decide what he wants these days.

But their presence calms. And he craves the calm. Craves them more and more.